


When Tomorrow Comes

by zanoranna (rei_c)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Protective Team, Secret Relationship, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-30
Updated: 2011-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:29:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23247784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/zanoranna
Summary: "Are you sure this is what you want?"Luis looks at his agent and gives him a one-shouldered shrug. "Why not?" he says. "It's the EPL. Half the team speaks Spanish, Portuguese, or Dutch, and my English isn't awful. Odds are I'll be playing Europa-level football next year; that's not Champions League but it's good enough for now. And they need a striker.""They have Fernando Torres," his agent says."They might not by the time I get there," Luis finally says. "But either way, this is what I want. Make it happen."
Relationships: Luis Suárez/Fernando Torres, Sergio Ramos/Fernando Torres, Xabi Alonso/Steven Gerrard
Kudos: 4





	When Tomorrow Comes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt: Luis Suarez/Fernando Torres - a one-off during the World Cup & then Suarez ends up in Liverpool, leading to awkwardness, possessive Stevie & Pepe, etc? Bonus points for a Suarez&Forlan conversation which references Fer's time at Atletico.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" 

Luis looks at his agent and gives him a one-shouldered shrug. "Why not?" he says. "It's the EPL. Half the team speaks Spanish, Portuguese, or Dutch, and my English isn't awful. Odds are I'll be playing Europa-level football next year; that's not Champions League but it's good enough for now. And they need a striker." 

"They have Fernando Torres," his agent says. 

"They might not by the time I get there," Luis finally says. "But either way, this is what I want. Make it happen." 

\\\

He stands in the doorway, behind Dalglish, and lets his eyes survey the room. The first team's just finished practice and everyone is in a state of dishabille. A couple players are in the showers, by the sound of it; Luis thinks it might be the younger English ones as he doesn't see Shelvey or Kelly in the crowd. 

"Listen up, lads!" Dalglish yells, and the noise instantly dies down. Luis has heard about the level of respect -- bordering on hero-worship -- that Liverpool's fans and players have for the new manager but he didn't realise it was to this extent. "I've just come from a presser and it's official: Luis Suárez is a Red. Most of you have probably played against him at one time or another but now he's ours, so make him feel at home, all right?" 

Dalglish steps to one side and Luis moves up to stand next to him. He holds his chin high; it's never good to show weakness around a new team and a lot of people have started to refer to him in connection with the handball against Ghana. He hopes his new teammates won't but he's prepared for anything. 

Lucas is the first to come over and shake his hand, followed closely by Meireles, Maxi, and Aurélio. They all welcome him warmly, speaking in a tumbling mixture of English, Spanish, and Portuguese. It makes Luis' head hurt to try and follow the rapid switching but he can understand them, at least, and inserts comments when appropriate. 

"All right, mates, come on, give us a breath," and the four part, make way for the captain. Gerrard stands there and studies Luis for a moment, who doesn't hide the fact that he's looking back just as closely, as carefully. Carragher's right behind Gerrard, eyes narrowed, and for the first moment, Luis feels the slightest bit as if he's in over his head. No one at Ajax is this intense. 

The locker room is silent, more so than when Dalglish called for attention, and Luis can feel that Lucas and Meireles are frozen in attention, waiting for Gerrard to pass some kind of judgment. 

Gerrard finally gives Luis a lopsided grin and holds out one hand. "You'll do, I think," he says, and the team as a whole lets out a breath. 

Luis shakes Gerrard's hand, then Carragher's, and says in accented but correct English, "I will." 

"Yeah," Gerrard says. "You will." He turns his head the slightest bit and calls out, over his shoulder, "Dirk? Pepe? Nando?"

Reina's the first one to answer, says, "About time, Stevie," and elbows Gerrard out of the way, taking Luis' hand and shaking it up and down. "Pepe Reina, goalkeeper extraordinaire. Sorry we didn't get to play you over the summer, would've been brilliant." 

"Slow down," Kuyt says, throwing a mock glare in Reina's direction. "And shut _up_ about the Cup, already." He turns to Luis, rolls his eyes, says in Dutch, "He still wears his medal to do the grocery shopping. One day, we're going to steal it and hide it and listen to him cry. It'll be a nice change from the gloating." 

Luis smiles, can't help himself, as Reina's turned to Gerrard and is complaining about not being able to understand what Kuyt's saying, about Kuyt being mean to him and leaving him out and how he never wants to play on the same team as Kuyt, ever again, thank you very much. 

"Is he always like this?" Luis asks in English, as Reina's dropped to his knees and is clinging to Gerrard's leg, mock-wailing. 

"Yes," comes the immediate answer from half a dozen different people. 

Reina falls over, lies on his back, and throws one arm over his eyes. "Nobody loves me," he says with a sniffle. "Everybody hates me." 

Dalglish nudges Reina with one foot. "We'll love you when you shower," the manager says. "Go on, Pepe, you reeking, loudmouth, Spanish bastard." 

"If you weren't the manager," Reina says seriously, moving his hand to look up at Dalglish, "I would call you names right now. Lots of names. Most of them would be mean and _then_ who would be crying, eh?" Still, he gets up and heads for the showers, giving Dalglish a half-hug and Gerrard a soft punch in the arm along the way. 

"He's not always like this." Luis stiffens on instinct, then forces himself to relax, turning to meet Torres' eyes. Torres is smiling at Luis but the smile doesn't reach his eyes and looks all too hesitant, even though he's adding, "Most of the time he's worse." 

Gerrard groans, says, "'Nando, English, _please_."

Luis hadn't even realised Torres had spoken in Spanish. 

Torres' lips curve up at the end and Luis remembers what Diego told him, when Luis called to ask his opinion on a transfer to Anfield. " _I never played with him, but they still speak of him here. If he's still there, Luis, be careful. He's damaged goods._ " Luis had asked what that meant but Diego wouldn't elaborate and he hadn't said much more except good luck. 

Standing here, face to face with Torres for the first time since South Africa, Luis thinks maybe he should've argued with Diego. Maybe he should have gone down to Madrid and punched Diego, one of his best friends, in the face. 

Damaged goods, indeed. 

"Sorry," Torres says, stepping away from Luis and moving closer to Gerrard, who slings an arm around Torres' shoulders to pull him close and then ruffle his hair. 

"Ah, you know what the lads'll say," Gerrard says, and the two of them beam at each other. 

Luis' stomach turns. Dalglish pulls him out of the locker room, walks him down the hallway, pointing out the different rooms and gyms. 

"You'll get used to them," he says to Luis. "Pepe's dramatic but he's a good sort, and there's no better captain for the team than Stevie." 

"And Torres?" Luis asks, curious to see what Kenny says about the striker, Liverpool's Number Nine. 

Kenny's smile drops, just a little, and turns infinitely more brittle. "Ah. Well. A good lad, 's Fernando. He's had a rough season but it seems to be turning around and maybe with you here now." He shrugs, says, "I'll look forward to seeing the two of you play together," and leaves it at that. 

\\\

Luis joins them for practice the next day. It's not a scrimmage, not even out practicing formations, just endurance and drills. Luis is a little disappointed but he keeps his mouth shut about it. Instead, he stretches with Kuyt and runs with him in the midst of a group, though he can hear Lucas and Meireles chattering to each other in Portuguese not too far away. 

"They're a good pair," Kuyt says. "Practically the best players we had before Kenny came back. Lucas is a much better midfielder than half the country gives him credit for and he and Raul have developed a good partnership." 

Luis nods; he's had that thought as well and it's always good to know that the centre midfielders can work together. He's more interested in the attacking midfielders and forwards, though, and says as much to Kuyt. 

"Well, Ryan's left for Germany, of course," Kuyt says, "and David's good but he's still young. Give him a couple years and he'll be making regular first-team starts, here or somewhere else. Stevie's never going to stop, he's usually the first one in on practice days and the last one out. Cole hasn't really settled; Maxi is doing much better."

"And Torres?" Luis asks. He looks for Torres and finds him ahead, jogging between Gerrard and Reina, the other two crowding him, keeping him close, as if they're bodyguards and not the captain and second vice-captain. 

Kuyt's answer is slow to come, but he eventually says, "It's been a rough season."

"You call everyone by their first name, or a nickname," Luis says, getting from Kuyt's tone that there won't be much more said on the subject of Torres. "Is that something everyone does or just those who've been here a while?" 

"Part comfort level, part team-bonding," Kuyt answers, seemingly relieved to be asked a question on a different topic. He adds, wryly, "Really, after the first time you're out in public, in a group, and you have to work together to do damage control on Pepe? It comes naturally." 

Luis laughs, can only imagine what that must be like. Up ahead, he sees Torres' head turn, slightly, as if he heard Luis. 

\\\

The team plays the next day. Carragher's out on injury and Luis isn't ready to join the team, even on the bench, so he sits next to the vice captain, bundled up against the cold. Luis closes his eyes as Anfield sings around him, lets the noise and the passion soak into him, and when he opens his eyes to see the team take the pitch, he can't help his flushed cheeks or the massive grin stretching across his lips. 

"Just wait 'til it's you out there," Carragher says, leaning close and nodding at the pitch. 

Luis gets shivers thinking about it though he doesn't give any sign of it, simply settles in his seat and watches the match. 

Torres starts and starts well, but he begins to fade about thirty minutes in. Luis can see why: Lucas and Meireles are holding their line but that line is back pretty far, and by the time they pass the ball up to Kuyt or Maxi, and _they_ pass it to Torres, the striker still has two midfielders and two centre-backs to get though before the goal. Gerrard does what he can, moves up from time to time, but then he and Torres are playing like wingers and there's no one inside to handle a cross, not in time to beat the opposing team to the ball. 

It's just what he saw when he watched tapes of Hodgson's time in charge. Dalglish is changing things but this team, they've had Hodgson's training for months. It'll take time to break out of it with just Dalglish leading the way. Luis will help. 

The second half is better. Lucas and Maxi connect to move the ball up the pitch and there are some flashes of brilliance from Gerrard that makes Luis think that, yes, this man really is the captain they all say he is. Kuyt is a workhorse and never stops moving, covering more of the pitch than anyone else. 

Still, for all that Luis is watching everyone, even Reina between the posts, he can't take his eyes off of Torres. The striker has issues, yes, that's clear to see; his confidence is bruised and he doesn't seem to trust his own body from time to time, but there are flashes of the Torres he's been hearing stories about for years, seconds when the striker runs and all he can hear is Diego, complaining bitterly about how everyone at Atletico compares him to their former captain, a breakaway beating the offside trap where it seems as if Torres is running faster than the wind, feet moving in a blur that Luis can't keep track of. 

He's captivated by the way the team is trying to lift itself up out of the rut with every touch of the ball but he's mesmerised by Torres. 

Liverpool wins, 2-1. Torres scored both goals. No wonder Abramovich has been chasing him for so long.

Carragher turns to him when the game's over and people around them are singing again. He raises an eyebrow and asks, "How long's it gonna take before you're out there?" 

Luis grins, showing his teeth. "How long can Dalglish keep me out?" 

"Aye, lad," Carragher says. "Stevie was right. You'll do." 

\\\

They have the next day off. Luis has rented an apartment in Liverpool but he doesn't have much inside of the place besides furniture. He goes out to get some groceries early in the morning and finds that the shops aren't open yet. With a mental shrug, he pulls out his phone and scrolls through his contacts, finding Torres' information. 

It's probably too soon but he can't help himself and half an hour later he's standing on the front step, ringing the doorbell. It only takes a moment but then the door's opening. Luis braces himself for Torres' face but instead a dark-haired woman with a baby on one hip is looking at him. 

"Luis Suárez?" she asks, and the way she's speaking, it sounds more Spanish than English. 

"I am," he says, answering her in Spanish. "I was looking for Torres. For, um. Fernando. Is he." 

The woman smiles at him but she says, "Sorry, no. Fer went down to London this morning. He and Cesc had plans. No doubt there'll be a picture on Cesc's twitter later. Would you, um. Would you like to come in?" 

Cesc -- must be Fàbregas, Arsenal's captain and perennial Barcelona target. Something about Fàbregas has always rubbed Luis the wrong way. Most of the people who came out of La Masia do, although Reina hasn't, yet. Luis has no doubt it's only a matter of time.

"Thank you," Luis says, "but that's all right. It was nice to meet you." 

"I'm Olalla," she says. "And really, it's no problem." A shriek echoes down the street and is soon followed by a few yells, just loud enough to hear, not loud enough to hear what's being said. Luis raises an eyebrow at the noise and turns to Olalla for any explanation she might be willing and able to give. Olalla grins, says, "Pepe and his family live next door. I'd run, if I was you. No doubt he'll be out front chasing his girls any moment now." 

Luis nods, says, "Thank you," and leaves. 

Olalla calls out after him, "I'll tell Fer you stopped by!" 

Luis doesn't acknowledge her.

\\\

He shows up for practice an hour early on Monday in order to familiarise himself with Melwood and maybe get a few touches on the ball to limber up before everyone else arrives. There's the faint trace of deodorant in the locker room which makes him think he's failed at that, but there's no sign of who it might be. Of course, he might be wrong, this might be what this changing room always smells like, but Luis doubts it.

Luis dresses, stuffs his bag and street clothes into his locker, and walks outside. He's not at all surprised to see he's not the first one there, but he's surprised -- he shouldn't be, but he _is_ \-- to see who beat him to the pitch. Gerrard is warmed up and out on the pitch, no shock, and Reina looks as if he's just walked onto the pitch, stretching in front of the goal. 

Torres is there. He's dressed in the practice kit with gloves and a hat as well, hiding almost every inch of skin apart from the distance from the bottom of his mouth to his top of his eyes. Torres' hair isn't visible and his eyes are narrowed in concentration, but he's smiling, laughing as he yells to Gerrard. 

Reina is the first to see Luis. He stands up, starts doing jumping jacks and yelling at Luis in between each one. "Luis! Good! To! See! You! Get! On! Out! Here! And! Stretch! So! We! Can! Play!"

"Shut the hell up, Reina," Gerrard grouses, but he kicks the ball softly in Reina's direction and makes it easy for the keeper to catch. 

Reina makes a big show of catching the ball and then falling down with it clutched to his chest, as if it were a full-speed volley from thirty yards out. "Stevie, you could've killed me!" he yells. "What're you trying to do, you piece of Scouse shit, take my fucking head off? You don't like me anymore, is that what this is all about? Fine, fine, I see how it is. You go off and pout in that corner and I'll just work with Luis here." 

Torres had been standing there, arms curled tight around his chest, grinning as he watched the spectacle. He speaks up now, says, "Pepe, you fucking wanker, shut up."

The finer points of English profanity don't make much sense to Luis, not yet, but the subtleties of the group dynamics off the pitch, those are becoming clear to see. Reina, so loud and boisterous, taking all the attention for himself -- or, not for himself, but away from the others. Reina's strong enough to be keeper and he's a damn fine one at that, but he's also strong enough to carry the weight of watching eyes. Luis has always respected men who could do that; it's not in his personality to do the same but every good team has someone who fits that role, whether they're a player or the manager. 

Gerrard, behind Reina, acting as a mild-mannered man who plays peacemaker when he has to but prefers to lead by quiet strength. He's a man who earns respect before he demands the recognition of it and he's a Liverpool fixture, practically has roots sinking into the ground and keeping him here. There have been transfer rumours swirling around him and Luis has always been vaguely surprised that Gerrard's stayed at Liverpool, hasn't gone to Chelsea or Real Madrid or Bayern Munich, but he understands now. 

And then there's Torres, hunched shoulders and all, standing back, careful and quiet around outsiders, a little more relaxed with those he trusts. 

Luis wants to be one of the people Torres trusts. He's already had a taste of what it might be like, but he's beginning to see that the Torres he met in South Africa is markedly different from the Torres that lives and plays and works in Liverpool. The difference is almost staggering and it intrigues Luis like no one ever has before. There are layers, here, and secrets, and he wants to peel them all back and have the answer to the mystery spread out in full before him. 

To think, Torres submitted a transfer request not two weeks ago. 

"You stretched?" Luis hears, and then there's a football flying at him. He jumps up to bounce the ball against his chest, lets it drop and kicks it once, twice, before sending it to Torres. The Spaniard looks taken aback for a moment but he controls the ball without needing to think about it, lets it rest at his feet as he stares at Luis. 

Gerrard moves, though it was Reina who asked the question; the captain stands between Luis and Torres, blocking Luis' view of the other striker, and says, "If you want, we've got time to send a few at Pepe before the others start to get here." 

Luis nods and begins to stretch without saying a word. Gerrard keeps an eye on him for a moment or two but eventually moves, jogging backwards until he's at the half. Torres sends him the ball and the two pass it back and forth for a few minutes, up and down the length of the pitch, penalty box to penalty box. 

-

Luis watches from the corner of his eye as he finishes stretching and then jogs up and down the line as Gerrard moves back and Torres stays further up the pitch. Reina, catching the unspoken signal, crouches a little, focused on them, all traces of laughter gone from his face. Torres smiles at Gerrard but it isn't a friendly expression; Luis wishes he could see Gerrard's face to know what look he's returning to the striker. 

The two move in sync, without any signal being given. They pass the ball back and forth, short little passes on the grass, a few crosses that Torres races to catch before the ball goes outside, some long balls that arch in the air and seem to fall right in front of the target. When the attack comes, Luis is stunned by the violence of it, whipping past Reina from inside the box, hitting the netting with an audible noise. 

Reina grumbles; just like that, the spell is over as the keeper says, "One day, Gerrard. One day I'll stop you." He picks up the ball, glares in Gerrard's direction, and adds, "And your little dog, too." 

"I don't have a bloody dog, Pepe," Gerrard says, before turning to Luis. Torres, on the far side of the pitch, hasn't taken his eyes off of Luis since the goal. Luis has felt the weight of his attention and decides that it's too early to crave that feeling, to want to draw Torres from his shell and out where Luis can see him. 

Reina throws the ball back to Gerrard, who controls it, then puts his foot on the top of it as he looks back at Luis. "Think you can keep up?" Gerrard asks. 

Luis lifts his chin up, makes sure that the stubborn determination on his face is aimed in Gerrard's direction and doesn't go into the territory of petulance or humour. "Let's see," he says, and jogs onto the pitch, taking the left side while Torres is on the right and Gerrard is third man, right in the middle. 

Gerrard kicks the ball to Luis, who looks across the pitch at Torres, and nods in Pepe's direction. 

It's different than the first practice he had at Ajax. That time he went up against the keeper, alone and in front of the whole team, everyone watching including the manager. This feels more like an audition, a casting call with the other picks right there to bounce off of, to move with and get a feel for. It's more honest, in a way, harder to hide and harder to dissemble, and when Torres finds the back of the net, Luis can't help the smile, the laughter, the applause. 

Gerrard and Reina are silent, as if they're mentally tallying up a score, but Torres is grinning right back at him and though he doesn't take a bow, he does give Luis a nod. 

"Again," Gerrard says, and as Luis' eyes move from Torres to the captain, Gerrard adds, "And this time, let's make it faster." 

Luis has done something that's raised Gerrard's hackles. He's not sure what.

-

They run the same drill again and again, though the goals come from different people and different directions after different passes. Eventually Meireles shows up, then Kuyt, and they switch things up. At first, Gerrard drops back and lets Kuyt fly all over, sometimes acting as a forward in concert with Luis and Torres, sometimes with Gerrard and Meireles as a midfielder. 

Luis works better on the wings, though, and soon enough, with most of the rest of the first team warming up on the side, Torres and Kuyt switch places and Lucas lines up behind Kuyt on the right. Gerrard takes the centre behind Torres and Meireles moves over behind Luis, forming the two front lines of Dalglish's preferred 4-3-3 formation. 

Reina's let in more of their attempts than he's kept out but Luis thinks that any keeper he could find, anywhere in the world, would have trouble with them. As Gerrard touches the ball, passing it to Meireles, Reina takes a deep breath and plants his feet, bends his knees, the very epitome of concentration. Luis forgets about Reina and focuses on the ball. 

It's hard, he hasn't had time to learn his teammates, to guess where they'll be at, but Meireles and Lucas move the ball up the pitch, passing to each other and to Gerrard, who hovers between the two lines. Every so often they'll send the ball up to Kuyt or Luis, who run up the line and send the ball in to whoever's there. 

It's practice more than anything, getting used to one another, so Torres rarely aims it at the goal and Luis follows his lead; when they do shoot for goal, whether they score or not, Reina is quick to move the ball out again, throwing it over the forwards to the midfielders. It's not a flawless kick-about, not by any means, but when Dalglish blows the whistle, Torres sends the ball toward the goal at a blistering speed. Reina reaches for it and the ball brushes the tips of his gloves, but it isn't enough to divert the ball and it hits the inside side netting with a pronounced noise. 

There's some clapping and whistling from the sidelines and Dalglish gives them all an exasperated look, one that turns fond when it hits Gerrard and Reina, the fondness turning into something halfway sad and moderately cautious when his gaze sweeps over Torres. 

Dalglish looks at Luis and nods, says, "Looks like you won't have any trouble finding your feet here." 

Luis is inordinately pleased, though he's even more pleased when most of the team comes up in ones and twos during and after the practice session to welcome him properly to Melwood. Gerrard doesn't, though, and neither does Reina; they both nod as they head for the changing room. He wonders if that session before the official practice was their way of welcoming him, wonders why they slight him like that when it doesn't serve them any purpose, but he sees them pause at the touchline and gets it, just like that. 

Torres is sitting on the edge of the bench, waiting for the two stragglers; when they go inside, they walk in as a group. Torres is sandwiched in between the two as they laugh and elbow one another, words too quiet for Luis to hear, and though they're all roughly the same height, Torres looks dwarfed by the other two. 

"Hurts the lad when all the pundits are after him for letting Liverpool down," Dalglish says. Luis turns his head; he hadn't heard the manager come up but Dalglish is right next to him, watching the three men disappear inside the building. "And then the transfer request on top of that. The others didn't take very kindly to it." 

There's a message there; Luis hasn't been here long enough to translate it. He isn't sure what Dalglish means about the transfer request, wonders who the 'others' are that he's talking about. Luis simply shrugs and says, "I cannot imagine anyone would." He watches for a reaction. 

Dalglish nods, twice, slowly, and then claps Luis on the back. "Excellent form today, by the way. Gave the team a real boost. You looked comfortable on the wing and up front in a pair. Do you have a preference: right or left?"

"I play where I'm told," Luis says. "Usually that's been on the right, but I prefer the left. But, as long as I play, I don't care which side it's on."

Dalglish chuckles, nods again. "Fair enough, lad. Fair enough. All right, go on inside and change. Everyone'll be having lunch here today while I go over a few things, so mind you're quick about it." 

\\\

Practice is good. His apartment is looking more lived-in every day and he's getting used to navigating the city. The people here are friendly, almost weirdly so, and it's a little off-putting until he thinks about the way the locker room fell silent for Dalglish and went still for Gerrard. Football rules, here, in this city, in a way it never did in Amsterdam, and he is one of the hierarchy, new and unproven but still a member. 

He aches to play, to justify the money spent on him and the hope invested in him, and he gets his wish in the weekend. It's only as a substitute but he plays for half an hour and doesn't fail miserably. He doesn't score, either, and doesn't set up any assists, but the important thing is that the team wins, gets the three points, and goes home in time for dinner. 

Luis watches Sky Sports, his English already better and his ear more used to the London accent than the Liverpool one. The reporters and commentators pick apart his performance and though they don't sound terribly impressed, they all know that Luis has only been training with the team for a week and a half. In that regard, he's not doing half bad. 

\\\

Luis assimilates. He makes friends, on and off the pitch. He calls everyone by their first name, even if he still thinks of them by their surname in his head or when he's talking to Diego. He scores his first goal in Anfield, at the Kop end. The team is in sixth place and riding a wave of momentum as big as the city. 

He still hasn't had a chance to talk to Torres alone. 

If he was the type of man to believe in luck or coincidence, Luis would chalk it up to a bad run of either, something to balance out the way the team is gelling around him, as Dalglish decides on a formation and a starting eleven. They're playing well and Luis thinks that in another month or so, when it counts, he and Torres will be well on the way to forming a partnership worth its weight in euros. They're doing well already and it's only been a few weeks since Luis first stepped foot into the Melwood dressing room. 

Luis isn't superstitious, though, and he's not an idiot. They're protecting Torres, all of them, and Gerrard and Reina are the worst, one or both of them always with Torres, always keeping one eye on the striker, always herding Torres off or Luis away. Luis has tried, once or twice, to bring it up to the others, Kuyt and Lucas and Meireles, but as soon as they realise what he's talking about, they clam up and change the subject. 

It's driving Luis crazy, so much so that one day after practice, when everyone's dressed and getting ready to leave, he finally just texts Torres from six feet away. 

_Lunch?_

Torres' phone goes off and he checks the message. Luis doesn't look at Torres full-on, but he makes sure he can see Torres from under his eyelashes. Luis ties his shoelaces, right shoe before the left, and watches as Torres' expression smooths out and turns blank. 

"Everything all right, 'Nando?" Gerrard asks, just loud enough for Luis to hear. 

Torres looks at his phone a moment longer, then up at Gerrard, smiling as he slides his phone back into his pocket. 

"Yeah," Torres says. "Everything's all right. Ola just wanted to know if I'd be home for lunch, that's all." 

For a moment, Luis thinks he's sent the message to the wrong person, that or something's wrong with the network. Torres glances at him, though, as he walks past, just a brief flick of his eyes in Luis' direction, and Luis wants to smile at Torres' instant lie and the way he's better at camouflage that Luis ever suspected. Luis wants to smile, but he doesn't. He simply goes out to his car and drives back to his apartment, waiting to hear from Torres. 

It takes an hour but then his phone rings. Luis doesn't answer it right away, though he's been sitting, tackling the newspaper crossword, with the phone an inch away from his hand. He gives it three rings, then answers. " _Buenas tardes, Fernando_ ," he says. 

" _Inglés, por favor_ ," Torres says, then, "I wondered how long it would take you to call." 

"Do you have time to talk?" Luis asks. 

There's a moment of silence from the other end, then Torres says, "Stevie and Pepe aren't here, if that's what you mean." Luis opens his mouth, about to respond, but Fernando mutters, " _No importa_ ," and says, "I'll come to yours. Give me ten minutes." 

Luis hears the dial tone and takes the phone away from his ear. He stares at the phone, then sets it down on the table. He'll have to put the paper away, move the two dictionaries he's been using to help him with the crossword. There's food in the fridge and freezer both; he can scrounge something up once Torres arrives.

-

There's a knock on the door nine minutes later; Luis couldn't stop himself from counting. Torres is standing there, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and a plastic shopping bag in the other. Luis steps to one side, leaving the way into his apartment open and clear. Torres comes in, all awkward movement and coltish grace, and sets the wine and the shopping bag down on the counter. 

Luis closes the door and, after a moment's thought, locks it. He turns, studies Torres and doesn't attempt to hide what he's doing. He's seen Torres walking before, off the pitch and in street clothes, and it still makes him want to shake his head at how different the man can be from when he's dressed in match-day kit and on the pitch. His confidence, for one, is much more muted, now, though it lacks the bruised quality that Luis has seen when they're playing. 

"I picked up a chicken," Torres says. "I wasn't sure if you'd eaten yet. It's been a while since you sent the text." 

"I was waiting for you," Luis replies. He didn't mean to sound accusing or make a statement with so many shades of meaning but Torres' jaw clenches as he turns away, ostensibly to look at the rest of Luis' apartment. "I was prepared to cook something but I don't know what you like. I wanted to check with you first." 

Torres turns back to look at him, cautiously searching Luis' face. Luis isn't sure if Torres finds what he was looking for or not, but Torres says, "I am sorry for the team." 

Luis frowns, shakes his head. "What about the team?" 

"The way they act around me," Torres says. "I know you've wanted to ask. They're just. Protective." 

He wants to ask, wants to know more, but Luis is sure that Torres will share the details when he's good and ready. He crosses the little entry-way and goes behind the counter, into the kitchen. Luis pulls out a corkscrew and grabs two wineglasses from a cabinet near the stove. He reaches across the counter, checks the label on the wine before he opens the bottle and pours a glass for each of them. 

"Is there any significance to the garnacha?" Luis asks, after taking a sip. It's a good wine, almost sweet. 

Torres shrugs, fiddles with his glass as if it's a nervous tic to keep his hands busy. Perhaps it is. "It's my favourite," he says. "No big deal." 

Luis nods, gets out plates and cuts up the chicken, heats up some vegetables on the stove and some chips in the oven. It doesn't take very long and they move to the table to eat. It's quiet, just the sound of their utensils on the plates and the sloshing of wine as they steadily make their way through the bottle. Luis pulls out the last bits of a cake from the fridge and as he's sliding a piece across the table to Torres, the Spaniard speaks. 

"Some of it's my injuries," Torres says, out of nowhere, though Luis understands that this is the elaboration he was expecting earlier. "The surgery last year didn't take as well as it should have and then I kept pulling things. I wasn't up to match standards but I went to the Cup even though I shouldn't have, and then I came back and played before I'd had enough rest. We all did." 

"Some of that has to do with the transfer request, yes?" Luis asks. 

Torres nods, says, "The medical team at Chelsea is one of the best in Europe and they have the squad to rest me when needed. And," he adds, "they play in the Champions League. If I can't shake the injuries, well, even if I _can_ , I'm not getting any younger. Liverpool won't be in the Champions League next year unless a miracle happens and I don't. I don't have much time left in the starting eleven of any side. Chelsea's been chasing me for a while now and they have the money to pay. I might as well go while they're still willing to offer forty million euros for me." 

Luis nods as he takes another bite of cake. He had wondered about that but there were so many rumours flying around the last three days of the transfer window that he wasn't sure which was true and why. It make sense, though; Torres has had several niggling injuries since he arrived at Liverpool and though Chelsea's squad is aging, they do have some good young talent coming up through the reserves. A season with Torres there to hunt out goals while the older ones are phasing out and the young ones are getting blooded would be enough for Abramovich to pay that kind of money. 

"Is it what you want?" Luis asks. "You're happy here, and you seem particularly close to the captain."

"Stevie's one of my best friends," Torres says. "He's almost like an older brother." Luis' mind catches on that, _brother_ , and something inside of him unclenches to hear it. "And I am happy here," Torres adds. "If I could, I'd stay here forever."

Luis has his mouth open to ask what the problem is, then, to ask why Torres can't stay or won't stay. He stops himself, though, and quickly, because Torres is staring down at his wine as he twirls the glass in between two fingers. It's clear from the look on his face that his thoughts are a million miles away.

"I never said thank you," Luis says, instead. Torres looks up, one eyebrow raised, and Luis says, "For beating the Dutch at the end. My team tried to do the same to the Germans, but," and he trails off, shrugging. 

Torres flushes, sinking down in his chair a little. 

This is the first time the two of them have had time alone, thus it's the first time Luis has referenced their only other meeting. South Africa seems a lifetime ago, the Cup, the cold, the noise and joy and utter anguish, but sitting here now, in an apartment in Liverpool, across the table from Torres, it seems like it happened just yesterday. 

"I wasn't even supposed to be there," Torres says, quietly. He's not meeting Luis' eyes. "Del Bosque was furious when he realised that we'd snuck out."

"You never did say where you were going," Luis says, just as quietly. 

Torres' eyes flick up to look at him, only for a moment, before his gaze returns to the table. "Trying to meet up with Stevie, actually," he says. "Xabi and I were, and Stevie was bringing Carra and Crouchie. We were all. Well, Stevie and Xabi were."

He tries to explain in fits and starts but during one pause, Luis just looks at him and says, "Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso, they were together. It's an open secret and it's only natural they would want to spend time together if they were in the same area, even if things had ended." Torres nods. Luis gentles his voice, says, "You were a good friend to go with him."

Torres snorts. "It's not like I had much of a choice," he says. A hard edge has entered his tone, something that simultaneously makes Luis intrigued and wary. He never would have thought Torres could say something with that tone of voice before, disgusted and hopeless and steeled against whatever it is that has him sounding for all the world like a cat hissing with its hackles up. 

"You didn't?" Luis asks. Torres meets his eyes, glaring the slightest bit, and Luis says mildly, "Whatever it was, it ended up with me fucking you in a hotel supply room. I think I have the right to know _something_ , especially if it wasn't something you really wanted."

The thought of that, that Luis may have had Torres, _taken_ him, when Torres wasn't in his right mind, makes Luis' stomach curl. He tastes acid, thick and sour, in the back of his throat. Luis hasn't exactly been a monk during his life but he's made sure each and every one of his partners was more than willing, no matter how many secrets he's had to keep. 

The glare melts from Torres' face and the flush is back, just a hint of it under Torres' eyebrows and high on his cheekbones. "I did," Torres says. "Want it, I mean." Luis waits and Torres finally lets out a deep breath and leans back from the table. He rubs his forehead for a moment, pinches the bridge of his nose. "Sergio Ramos and I have a complicated relationship," Torres says. "We've been friends since he was called up to the national squad in 2005. Best friends, even."

"It became something more," Luis guesses. 

"A few years ago," Torres says. "But he was furious when I came to England and he's furious that I settled so well so quickly. We spend more time fighting than anything else and we'd had a huge argument that night. When Xabi asked me if I wanted to go along. I couldn't stay in the hotel, not with Sergio, but then he caught me and Xabi sneaking out. He's never liked Stevie and he hated that Xabi was with him and that the three of us were so close. I've never seen him so _angry_."

Luis says, "He probably thought the three of you were together," without thinking. Torres' eyes go wide for a moment, then narrow in thought. "If he's the possessive type, it wouldn't take much. I've seen footage," Luis says, "and pictures. It wouldn't be a stretch of the imagination." 

Torres nods, but he says, "Sergio never said anything. I can't believe he." Torres stops himself, shakes his head. "Anyway."

South Africa sometimes seems like a dream, one that started off well and turned into a nightmare later on. Luis has spent more time thinking of the match against Ghana than he should have; it's like something caught in his back teeth that he can't stop worrying at, content to pick at it over and over again instead of excising once and for all. 

More than Ghana, though, he thinks of that time with Torres, how frantic and frenzied and _perfect_ it was. He thinks of the way Torres' fingers dug into Luis' hip, the way Torres threw his head back and gasped out broken Spanish curses, the way Luis rested his forehead on Torres' neck when they were done and how Torres let him, the pair of them catching their breath with their fingers entwined on Torres' stomach. 

"I wouldn't care if you were using me," Luis eventually says. Torres' head jerks up and he stares at Luis with wide eyes. "I'd like to know if I should expect Ramos to come after me, though." 

"If you should," Torres echoes, trailing off. "Luis," Torres says, and Luis wants to shiver with how it sounds, hearing Torres say his name like that. "I wasn't _using_ you. I wouldn't do that. Not to you, not to anyone. It was." He stops, licks his lips and swallows down the last of his wine in four gulps. Luis watches the clean lines of Torres' neck and throat, can't tear his eyes away. " _Joder_ , it was a, a spur-of-the-moment thing, yes, but I don't regret it." 

Luis nods, crosses his arms over his chest. "Is it just because of how Ramos treated you that the others won't let me get close to you," he asks, "or do they know about us?" 

"Stevie and Pepe know," Torres admits. Luis finds it interesting that he doesn't even try to defend Ramos. "The others take their cues from Stevie." 

Knowing what Luis did to their star striker and little brother, knowing how brittle Torres must have been over Ramos, knowing how the gossip's been treating Torres this season, it all explains the reaction to Luis in the dressing room. Of course, he still wants to know, "Did you ask them?" 

Torres shakes his head again. "No. And I've asked them to cool it, but they always think they know best. With Sergio, maybe they did." 

-

Torres leaves half an hour later. For the first time this afternoon, Luis isn't sure how to act, whether he should initiate physical contact or avoid it altogether. Torres takes the choice from him, though, leaning close and giving Luis a one-armed hug. The hug lasts a few seconds longer than propriety might dictate and Torres brushes his lips across Luis' cheek when he pulls back. 

"Please," Torres says, halfway out the door. "Call me anything other than Torres and mean it. All right?" 

He leaves before Luis can answer. 

\\\

The next morning, Luis arrives at Melwood an hour early. He changes and stretches inside, going outside only when he's limbered and ready to play. Gerrard and Torres are there already, the two of them kicking the ball around. They see him at the same time and Torres waves at him, shouts, "Luis! Hurry up, we can play monkey-in-the-middle against Stevie." 

Luis smiles, shouts back, "Hold on, 'Nando, I'm coming, _mierda_." 

Gerrard's giving him a _look_ when he finally jogs onto the pitch. Luis comes to a stop near Torres, who's grinning at him, and Luis can't help but return it. 

"When the fuck did you two," Gerrard starts to say. 

"Stevie, please," Torres says, putting one hand on Gerrard's arm. "It's all right." 

Gerrard stares at Torres, then turns to Luis and says, no hesitation, "If you hurt him, Suárez, so help me God, I'll kill you. And I'll have help. You have no idea how vindictive Pepe can get." 

Luis says, "I have no intention of hurting him," and waits a beat before adding, "I would like to hear what you've done to Ramos some time. I might have more suggestions." 

Torres groans but Gerrard gives Luis a mildly approving look and says, "We'll see."

\\\

Liverpool ends the season in fifth place. After the last game, when they're in the dressing room and Dalglish has already told everyone to rest up during the summer, Gerrard comes over to where Luis and Torres are sitting next to each other, thighs and legs pressed close together, breathing in sync. 

The two forwards look up at their captain, but Gerrard simply smiles down at them and says, "Aye, Suárez. You'll do," before ruffling Torres' hair and moving on.


End file.
